Sunday

Sunday’s are normally the day I get refilled, a day of renewal. After a week’s worth of nurturing a baby, running a home, cooking meals, nodding and smiling and decision making and go go going, Sunday’s are the day in which I get a little return. No, I don’t go to church, it’s our family day. It’s me and the husband and the baby all together. We run errands or we don’t. We pay social calls or we don’t. We accomplish things, or we don’t.

On Sunday’s it’s more than just feeling like, for a day at least, it’s not at all on me to keep it together. It’s getting to spend the day with my husband, who is laid back and calm and decisive and gentle and affectionate and kind. I draw from his strength on Sunday’s. I replenish my stores.

This system usually works very well. Except right now. Right now it’s not working.

My husband is going through a hard time all of his own. Overwhelmed with parenthood, sleep deprived, more to do lists than time? Who knows really. He’s not great with communication and his issues aren’t my business to write about.

Thing is, his hard time is getting harder it seems. And, while I want to support him through whatever he’s going through, and be patient and kind and replenishing to him, I just have nothing. Whatever it is that eats away at my mind is taking big, ravenous bites, and I’m disoriented from it all. My moods shift faster than ever, my highs aren’t happy, they’re frantic. My lows aren’t sad, they’re furious. The world is a merry go round spinning faster and faster and I’m nauseous from the ride. No, I’m literally nauseous.

I’ve absorbed whatever my husband is going through into myself. Assuring myself that, whatever his problem, it’s me. It’s me. It’s me. It’s always me.

And I’m left without a support. The only person I trust to talk about these things with is distracted at best, disinterested at worst. There is no checking in, there is no pulling close. There is me and my thoughts and my trying ever harder to keep a tight grip on a falling world.

Yesterday was Sunday. It was stilted and silent. It was irritable and short. It was his way and mine. It was not a refilling. There was no replenishing. I tell myself that it’s okay. That he’s allowed to go through his seasons as I am allowed mine. I tell myself, and believe, that everything will eventually get back on track.

Eventually.

But in the meantime I can’t breathe.

And so I keep on keeping on, breath be damned, because somehow it’s all got to keep moving forward. And Mabel eats and sleeps and plays. And I’m right there for every bit of it.

Nauseous and not breathing.

I hope we don’t miss too many Sundays.

2 thoughts on “Sunday

  1. Don’t know what to say…perfectly, eloquently (as always) describing my daily angst as well. Sleeplessness, (and yes) nausea…and a growing dissatisfaction with life in general. And like you…feeling there is no one to talk to… to reach out to. Why do we, as women, isolate ourselves and suffer silently on our own miserable, little island, constructed with our own hands? Fear of appearing disloyal? Fear of being accused of “whining”? Perhaps fear that some little “Mary Poppins” type will remind us of all we have to be grateful for and we will kill him or her? I am so sorry you are hurting. Thanks though, for giving voice to my bitter feelings this morning.

    1. I mostly just feel as though I should be able to be stronger for him; that I should be able to suck it up just a little bit longer and work to refill his cup, so to speak, just until he’s full again. It doesn’t seem to much to ask, considering how strong he’s been for me. But it’s hard. A bad time for an “episode”‘

      I’m sorry you’re having a hard time. This too shall pass…this too shall pass…this too shall pass…

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